Birds of a Feather
by TheHeroOfKvatch
Summary: The small mountain town of South Park has gone to complete shit. After many life changing events, many friendships were destroyed. Teenagers are hellbent on killing one another and no one is quite sure of why. No one aside from a certain Kevin Stoley.


**The Hero: Before I post this I'd like to say I've been working on this for a while (*cough* 3 months)and I hope you like. Loosely inspired by Fate/ Zero. Future chapters will be lengthy, but likely not as long as this one.**

* * *

Kenneth McCormick, recent high school drop out, stomped around the empty lot next to his own rundown home. This large and completely vacant space was where the boy who went by 'Kenny' spent most of his long and boring days. Puberty had done him quite a favor, but his undernourishment had made the favor pointless. Kenny had eyes that were a ghostly blue color and blond, shaggy hair that framed his face that was littered with scars. His growth was stunted and he stood at only 5'3", just taller than his younger sister that he made sure was fed better than he was.

Pulling himself up onto the brick wall lining the property, Kenny kicked his legs as he struggled to get up on the wall almost as tall as he was. Once the fight was over, he was properly seated on the wall, hunched over with poor posture. Kenny let out a long sigh, reaching into the pocket of his tattered orange parka. When his hand had reappeared, it held a lighter and a cigarette. He happily lit the cigarette and placed it in his mouth as he placed the lighter back into his pocket.

Smoking was an awful habit, as Kenny knew too well, and it had killed him in the past. Thankfully, this boy was special. At the young age of 14 he had died a total of 162 times, but had been reborn each and every time. As he got older the deaths had gotten less frequent, but they still happened enough to keep his mother up at night. It hadn't bugged Kenny, but once you've literally been to hell and back, things stop mattering.

Kenny took a final, long drag from his cancer stick before throwing it behind him into the snow beneath him.

He stared long and hard at the few patches of mud that weren't covered in snow. Quite frankly, Kenny hated the snow with every piece of his being. But alas, his parents were too poor for his family to move and South Park would stop snowing when hell started to. He loved the cold, though. He wore a large hood on his parka to cover his face, but the cold just felt so right. So right that Kenny quickly took off his thick parka and let it drop to the floor, leaving him in only a thin, white t-shirt that was stained all over. He let that fall to the ground, too.

The ice flurries that fell from the sky kissed his naked torso, causing him to shiver. Scars littered his chest as much as if not more than they had his face. Once Kenny had tried to count them, losing count after he hit 45. Some were small, some were large. Few were thick, many were thin, all were grotesque. Kenny knew where each and every scar came from, recalling who had given it to him and how they did it. The worst was the one that rested across the center of his chest. It was thicker than his arm and ran from his right shoulder to his bottom left rib. His good, if not best, friend Eric Cartman had given it to him. It was a very freakish accident.

Both of the friends had been sitting up in Eric's bedroom, watching their favorite show on the tv that sat on the dresser on the far left of the room. At only 8 years old, both boys found constant fart jokes hilarious, as they were both in fits of laughter with each sound that came from the television's speakers. Just when the episode was about to end, the boys heard a loud crashing sound as a rock came through the top part of Eric's window and hit the carpet with a loud thud. "What the hell?" Eric yelled, getting up from where he was seated on the bed. "What kind of dickwad would do that?" He asked in an irritated tone, walking to the window. Kenny bounced up and quickly followed his friend.

"Kahl, you fucking Jew!" Eric screamed hatefully down at the boy who had thrown the rock. "What the fuck was that for!?" He demanded, lifting the bottom panel of the window that hadn't been shattered. He leaned out of the window, glaring out the window to his two other friends, Kyle and Stan. "Sorry, fatass!" Kyle called. "We've been screaming at your window for the past ten minutes!" "Yeah dude, what the fuck?" Stan called after. Eric leaned back in the window before walking over to his bookshelf and grabbing a large dictionary. He thrust it into Kenny's arms. "Kinny." Eric said, causing Kenny to look up at him from the book that laid in his hands. "You're stronger than me. Throw this at them. Try to hit one in the face." "Whatever, dude." Kenny said and shrugged, his voice muffled by his hood. Kenny leaned out of the window, and just as he was about to throw the dictionary, the heavy window slammed shut on him, killing him instantly.

Kenny laughed at the memory.

He had stopped laughing and looked up to the road when he heard a car pull up and park in front of the lot where he now sat. Watching closely, he saw a boy around his age step out from the off-blue Chevy Cobalt that had been torn up on the hood, roof, and the left side in the front. Bright blond hair bounced around on the boy's head as he stood up from the car's driver seat and stared at Kenny, raising an arm. Leopold Stotch. He used his arm to non-verbally call Kenny over to where he was. Kenny knew immediately what it was time for. "I'm coming!" Kenny called out, leaping off of the wall and picking up his shirt and parka. "Let's get this over with." He said in a not so happy tone as he walked over to Butters, who now sat in the car, ready to drive off.

* * *

Damien Thorn, the literal anti Christ, loved going to the department store at this time of year and terrorizing people. Well, he loved doing it any time of year, really. But Christmas time left him with much prettier things to burn into a cinder. That part of Damien had never changed, though he was now 16.

As he grew older, his squeaky and high pitched voice had finally become so deep when he spoke it sounded like someone playing a solo on a string bass. His mop of hair had grown blacker and crazier, spiraling in multiple directions over his forehead. As always, his thick black eyebrows were a mess resting above his blood red eyes. Constantly looking as though fresh blood was coursing through them, Damien's eyes were enough to cause someone faint at first glance. However, South Park was a small mountain town where everyone knew you, so no one was surprised by his brilliant eyes anymore. Said eyes were currently staring down a large, decorative Christmas tree in the center of the room he was currently in.

The tree was easily over 50 feet tall, covered in glass ornaments that looked like they had taken a lot of time and money to make. Damien, in his overly-tight sweater clad glory laughed to himself, finding this tree ridiculous. If he destroyed this tree, it would make his ninth one in a row. For trees number five and six, the store had put up a fight. They tried extremely hard to keep him away, but all of their attempts failed. Now, they weren't even trying.

Damien strolled over to the tall tree, pulling at a long red ribbon that hung down to his shoulder, brushing it as he initially walked by. He studied the ribbon that had green lace for trim and a large smile formed on his pale face. He pulled the ribbon until it was completely stretched out straight, going down to the palm of his other hand that rested at his side. "Every firework needs a fuse." Damien murmured to himself quietly, slowly warming the ribbon. He glanced around, staring down everyone that walked past. Now was the best opportunity, for no one had been watching. He clenched the ribbon tightly, setting it on fire. He then let go of the ribbon, walking towards a nearby clothes rack that held sweaters that were uglier than any he had every seen.

He watched as the ribbon slowly curled up into black ash, climbing its own length until it reached the lower fake pine tree branches it was coiled around. Suddenly, the tree lit up, one branch catching fire after another. The flames climb all the way to the top, engulfing all of the plastic pine needles and pine cones along its journey. Candy canes and glass ornaments started falling to the floor as the room rang with peoples' screams and fire alarms blaring. Soon the sound was acquainted by the crashing of the glass to the tile, sending shards everywhere. Damien even witnessed a shard go into a man's eye as he tried to flee.

"You sadistic asshole!" A woman called from behind her glass counter. "You're going to hell, I hope you know that!" She yelled at Damien, whose attention she now had.

"Excuse me?" Damien asked in a dark tone, slowly strolling towards her. "Do you know who I am?" He asked, slamming his hand on the counter top, causing it to shatter. "No." She said, shaking her head. "And I don't want to, you bastard!" She hissed, grabbing a glass shard from the broken counter and swinging it at him in an attempt at self defense.

"You can call me the Prince of Darkness." Damien stated blandly, gripping a slender hand around the woman's neck and lifting her off of the ground. She dropped her glass shard, bring her hands to the one he had wrapped firmly around her thin neck. He squeezed her throat so hard that the trachea had probably shut completely. She gasped multiple times for air, her eyes rolling back into her head. Her legs were kicking, breaking another panel of glass on the already broken counter. He'd tease her by loosening his grip for a few seconds, allowing her air, to only then tighten his grip once more. She writhed in his grip and slowly stopped twitching. Her body went completely limp and the struggle for breathing stopped.

Damien considered killing this woman. He had her out cold, so it's not like she'd feel it. "If only she could feel it." He quietly said to himself, gripping her throat tighter. His nails slowly dug into the sensitive skin, soaking his fingers in beads of blood. "I hope you fucking die." Damien said in a disgusted tone, holding her bleeding throat tighter than he had at any previous time. The blood started pouring down all over his hand, causing him to smirk. He gained pleasure from this and could watch her bleed out completely this way. Damien took a deep breath, inhaling the smell of blood. He closed his eyes and heard all of the torturous sounds; it was music to his ears.

The children wailing, glass shattering, people screaming, and smoke alarms blaring were interrupted by Damien's cell phone ringing in his pocket.

Dropping the unconscious woman behind the counter, Damien walked over to the front of the store to answer his phone. "What is it?" He asked in an irate tone. "Damien." A shocked, breathless British boy called from the other side of the call. Damien stood up straight at his name. "Phillip." He said, in a demanding tone. "It's time." Phillip said. "Gotcha." Damien quickly shoved is phone in his pocket and ran off the department store entrance, where a boy with long blond hair waited for him, his nervous hands presses tightly in his coat pockets.

* * *

Clyde Donovan, a boy of 15, trudged through his kitchen unsure of what he was going to grab to satisfy his hunger. Groaning, he brought his large hands up to his plump cheeks and rubbed his face, trying to get rid of the pain and tension that had balled up in the center of his head at the tip top of his nose. Being tired didn't exactly make Clyde feel as if he were on top of the damn world, especially since it hurt to have his bright, chocolate brown eyes opened all the way. Clyde dropped his hands from his face and brought them up to the cabinet above his head, reaching to swing the old wooden door open. He picked away various pink, blue, and brown plastic cups that stood between him and his favorite cup that was in the back of the cabinet. There were about five stacks of cups, some of two cups and others of three, before he spotted what he had been looking for. Clyde was by no means short at his height of 5'11'', but he still had to stand on his tip toes to reach and grasp his cup. Once his arm retreated, he smiled down at the red transparent 'Carnival' cruise line cup that he now held in his palm. The cup was of an hour glass shape and had a base similar to an hourglass. He turned it over, reading the thick, white text on the back. "Relaxation...great to see you again!" He laughed to himself as he placed the cups he had already removed from the cabinet back where they belonged. Then, he closed the brown door and whirled around.

The teenager placed the cup down on his counter before turning in another direction, grabbing a 2 liter bottle of from the fridge. It was 10 AM, but that had never stopped Clyde from drinking or eating things that were chalk-full of sugar. He poured himself a glass of the soda, watching as seas of shimmering brown rained into his cup, before closing the large bottle and placing it back in the fridge where it belonged.

That solved his drink issue, but now he needed something to eat. Clyde wasn't in the mood to cook something since he had just waken up, he just wanted something quick and easy to eat. He sighed, walking over to the pantry that was at the very front of his laundry room, just behind the door. The door swung open at his touch and he eyed all of the food that laid in front of him. His eyes met something that made him smile and he immediately grabbed it up before closing the door and retreating to the kitchen. His hands made quick work of the small piece of plastic wrapping the treat he had just grabbed. Clyde tossed the wrapper into the trashcan before stuffing the cupcake into his mouth, holding it between his clenched teeth. He grabbed his cup of soda off of the counter without looking as he quickly walked back to his bedroom.

He quickly set his cup down on to the computer desk on the far side of his room. Then, he took a large bite from his chocolate cupcake, smearing thick, creamy filling all over his top lip. After enough of the cupcake was swallowed, he licked his lips clean as he plopped down into his wooden computer chair. Clyde checked the time as he crossed his legs, bringing the hem of his black basketball shorts up to his thighs. Yawning as he read '11:14 AM', Clyde muttered "It's too damn early for this." He palmed his face, groaning. "Why me?" Clyde asked, staring out of the window. The sky and ground were littered with snow and it bored Clyde after so many years. However, he did have positive thoughts. It was Christmas time and that meant piles of Taco Bell gift cards and clothes. His two favorite things. A close third would be reeds for his clarinet that he hardly ever played on break, so it was currently stuffed in his closet somewhere. It had taken Clyde a while to become attached to his instrument.

When his father had forced him to pick up music in the 8th grade, Clyde wasn't exactly the happiest kid. All he wanted to do was play sports, like he usually had, but his injury had stopped him. So band was his health friendly- definitely not mental health friendly when you're secretly a perfectionist like he was- alternative to football. He quickly picked up clarinet, as well as every clarinet in the family. Soprano, Eb soprano, alto, bass, contra alto, and the contra bass. Popularity faded when he joined the band, but he had no choice, and he grew to love what he did so much that he had eventually given up sports to be in the high school marching band. Clyde pinched the bridge of his nose at the thought of his clarinet.

"I'm such a fucking nerd." He muttered, looking around the room at the walls that were covered in plaques, trophies, and metals. The grip he held on his nasal bridge.

Clyde's Samsung Galaxy lit up, buzzing around the corner of his old wooden desk that had missing paint and chips all over its surface. He caught it just before it vibrated off of the desk and onto the beige carpet. He slid his thumb across the screen to unlock it. A message popped open that said "CLYDE. GET OUTSIDE NOW. YOU'RE LATE. -B". Clyde quickly shoved the remnants of his cupcake into his mouth, leaped into some slippers, and threw a jacket on. "Be right there -C" he replied.

* * *

Tweek Tweak, the distressed boy with a wild head of hair, was currently huddled over a cup of coffee. His parents owned a coffee shop, quite possibly the most popular one in all of South Park. So, naturally, he was drinking coffee at any time he could. He hadn't been very tall at any point in his life and his teeth were slightly yellow, which he blamed on the coffee. He was easily one of the smallest boys, being only beaten by Kenny McCormick. Surprisingly, though, he was friends with one of the tallest boys in school. At a whopping 6 feet 3 inches, Craig Tucker was Tweek's only friends.

Tweek had started middle school with three very close friends. Craig Tucker, Clyde Donovan, and Token Black. However, once Clyde was injured, the group split down the middle. The band kids had thought they were so much better than Craig and Tweek, with their ability to play the clarinet and french horn. Tweek laughed at the thought. Tweek an Craig weren't in any programs outside of school. They weren't in any clubs, they didn't play for any teams, and they laughed at organizations. All the pair had needed to not feel completely alone and like outcasts was each other.

There was never a weekend that the two boys didn't sit together on Craig's couch all day watching pointless cartoons and eventually passing out. They theoretically could have stayed at Tweek's, but it was just so loud. Over the years the Tweaks were able to afford a large, three story building. The bottom floor was home of the coffee shop, which was full of people all day long, and occasionally nights as well. It just wasn't suitable for cartoon watching and long naps.

Suddenly the tv's volume was unmuted and a news reporter was speaking quickly and frantically. Tweek's head snapped up and he stared at the flashing screen. "I'd like all citizens to pay attention!" She spewed out, placing both palms on her desk. "It's that time of year. No, not Christmas time. Time for the extreme killings. No one knows why it happens. No one knows how to stop it. It's literal warfare in the streets of South Park." The reporter stated in a now serous tone. Tweek quietly laughed to himself so no one would hear. "Twelve people always randomly die at this time of year. The killer never gets found, and we assume it's the same person. We also suspect that some of the victims actually killed each other off." Tweek sighed and shook his head at this statement. "Please," she started up again after a long pause, "stay off of the streets and out of harm's way." With that, the news ended. Muting the tv and setting the remote down, Richard Tweak spoke up.

"Tweek." He called out in his calm, quiet voice. Tweek sat up and turned to look at his father. "Yes, dad?" He asked, raising an eyebrow. His father had been washing coffee mugs and looking at him with a serious face. "Son," he started, "I know you want to go play with your friends. That's fine with me. Just please, make me a promise that you'll stay as safe as you possibly can." He said, looking quite upset.

"Yeah, dad, I will." Tweek said, setting his cup of coffee down and standing up. He slowly made his way over to his dad and wrapped his small arms around the man, inhaling the scent of his coffee stained button down shirt. His father smiled around put down his rag to wrap his own arms around his son's tiny frame. He felt his son shaking in his arms as his chest filled with air, causing his whole body to slightly twitch. He had done it all of his life and Richard had accepted it from the get go. He lightly ruffled the shaggy platinum blond hair that was in a waterfall over his son's head. "I love you, son." "You too, dad."

The teenager flashed a large smile up at and pulled away from his father, leaving him to his work. Then, he walked back to where he once sat, and plopped down in the seat again. He exhaled deeply before he took a large sip of coffee, finishing off the contents of his mug. Tweek grabbed a pitcher of coffee off of the small table he now sat at, pouring some of the hot brew into the empty glass, watching the sea of brown rise to about three fourths of the cup's height. He took a huge swig of coffee, feeling the liquid burn on its way down his throat. He gave a refreshed "ah" and set the mug down on the table. His hand didn't leave the handle. Once he felt content with his last sip, he was ready for another one. He started to lift his cup off of the table. Once it was no more than an inch away from the table top, he nearly had a heart attack.

Just then someone burst through the coffee shop's door, causing Tweek to jump up and shriek. He nearly threw his ceramic white mug to the floor, but his hand had been just about glued to it. His breathing sped up and he found it hard to see until he calmed down only seconds later. A boy with black hair and a deep blue, denim jacket stood just in front of Tweek, waving to him. That meant it was time to go. "Jesus Christ, Craig." Tweek sputtered, grasping back onto the chair behind him for balance. "Sorry, man. I forgot you were all jumpy." Craig said in a monotonous voice, looking at Tweek with eyes that seemed dead. "Are you ready to go?" Craig asked, placing a hand on his friend's shoulder. "Yeah, man." Tweek said, his green eyes brightening up as he stared a hole in his friend's forehead. "Let's go."

* * *

Stanley Marsh, the school's quarterback, paced quietly down the sidewalk with his hands in his pockets. He was hunched over in an awkward way, trying not to throw up due to his current case of the stomach flu. He had it when he took his ACT prep, and it stuck with him. Stan, as he went by, had lost a lot of weight and started getting sicker because he couldn't consume anything solid. Rarely could he keep a liquid down.

Even when he hadn't eaten, Stan had still managed to throw something up. Whether it was stomach acid, bile, or water. Stan had always managed to completely cleanse his stomach of its contents. His whole body would clench up in pain but there wasn't much he could do about it. Stan was sick, and that was that. He had to suck it up for now, because he had to fight for and defend his friend Kyle. How he was about to take on this war that he would soon be fighting in? He had no idea and he'd find out when the time came.

* * *

Christophe Taupe, the mole, fidgeted in church beside his mother. He never thought he'd feel this way, but he wished that English fool with ridiculous blond hair would save him. His mother shot him a few glares as he cursed under his breath. She knew he hated church and that's why she had brought him along; she was trying to make him love this godly experience. Christophe nervously laughed and looked over to the window, where light raindrops ran down the stained glass. He wasn't one for feeling peaceful, but the sight was enough to put him asleep.

His heavy eyelids slowly opened and his brown eyes were met with a pair of hazel ones that were a bit too close for comfort. "OH, YOU PIECE OF SHIT!" The little French boy screamed and jumped up, pushing his blond acquaintance away. He looked around quickly, noticing they were still in the chapel, but it was just the two of them. "Gregory...did you kill everyone?" His voice lowered and sounded a bit shocked. "I didn't think that you had it in you." "No, silly." Gregory laughed, placing a hand on his friend's shoulder. "Church ended an hour or two ago. Your mom said she didn't want to disturb you." Christophe yawned and stood up, facing away from Gregory. "I guess it's time to go, then." "That it is." Gregory agreed.

* * *

In a dark room stood twenty-five people of all different ages. No one stood apart from their servant or master, but away from all other contenders.

A hooded person stood in the center of a dark room. His or her laughter echoed throughout the room, causing everyone else to stand up completely straight. The person in shroud lifted their hood, revealing it was none other than Kevin Stoley.

"Greetings to you all. Meet me, your game master."


End file.
